


Palliative

by Sineala



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Enemas, Gen, Solo Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Krycek deals with his oilien experiences in a unique way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palliative

**Author's Note:**

> The only story I have written so far on my kink_bingo card. The kink is enemas.

It's been six months and Alex Krycek still thinks he can taste oil every time he coughs. He washes his hands. He washes his hands again. He takes long showers. He avoids public bathrooms, of course. None of it helps.

Blood isn't so bad, thank God. Better if it's not his blood, of course, but it's all right. He can deal. At least until it dries. Then he's in there with his hands in the sink until the keratin wrinkles, scrubbing under his nails. The brown of dried blood is too dark for him.

Cleaning his guns is the worst, because he does have to get his hands dirty there. With oil. It is black and sticky, and even though it stays on the rag where he puts it, he keeps watching to make sure it doesn't move. It could. It's easier if he's drunk. He knows alcohol and guns are an accident waiting to happen, but he's careful to get only a little buzzed.

It almost makes him laugh. Everything he's fucking been through in his life, and this is the thing that gets to him. He doesn't remember anything after walking, bleeding all the way, into an airport bathroom in Hong Kong. Nothing. Until, that is, the alien left him, dripping black oil out his eyes in that goddamned missile silo. It was in him, in all of him, knowing everything about him. It invaded him, and some days he can't be sure it's ever really gone.

He brushes his teeth very well these days, and he scrubs at his tongue with his toothbrush until he gags, and it's still not good enough. He isn't sure what he'd think about kissing, now. He hasn't tried. Sex is definitely not in the picture. It is nowhere near the frame. He knows what it's like to get close to someone now, and he doesn't want any part of it.

He's somewhere around LA when the idea occurs to him. It doesn't so much occur to him as _find_ him, really. He's just dispatched a particularly annoying man for the Syndicate, and even more unfortunately, the man had a knife. Alex was faster, of course, but the guy got in a good slash across his chest. Even though it's a hot summer, he has his jacket zipped up to his neck, and he's trying not to think about the liquid flowing out of him, sluggishly, clotting black and sliding down, down, into the green spiral--

He breathes in and out, heavily, and ducks into the first chain pharmacy he can find. Rite-Aid, CVS, Walgreens -- it could be anything. He isn't really sure where he is anymore; they're all disorientingly similar. He snags one of those cheap first aid kits, and to be safe, a roll of sterile gauze, tape, iodine, Neosporin. No emergency rooms for him; he can fix himself up well enough. As he's heading back down the aisle a box catches his eye: disposable enema kit. Something within him says yes. This is clean. This will cleanse him.

He picks up the box and reads the instructions. He can feel himself smiling, and the blood on his chest stops bothering him, for just a second.

***

A few hours later, he's in his dingy, nondescript hotel room, having dressed his wound well enough, and Alex stands in the bathroom, under harsh fluorescent lights, and considers the bottle in the box. Sure. Why the hell not?

He isn't sure how to do it at first, or how messy it will be, and ends up in a half-crouch in the tiny hotel bathtub, ass in the air, face against the cold tile. He takes a deep breath, bottle in his hand, shifting his arm back, and then he pushes. The tip, prelubricated, slides in easily. The feeling is a little odd, but not invasive. He is in control. This is his choice.

Alex squeezes the bottle and feels it, the rush of water into him, sliding deep into him. It is like the alien, but not -- it's the way the alien could have been. Should have been. The water is pure within him, he knows, and he holds it in. It is going where he could not reach, with his soap and his showers and his brushing. This is better.

To his amazement, to his joy, the press of the water within him is... arousing. He finds himself growing hard, the more water he squeezes in. His laughter echoes in the tiny room.

The small bottle empties quickly, and Alex finds that he feels sad. He could take more, he knows. If he did this again. He will do this again. It is hardly even a decision. He clambers awkwardly to his feet, still holding the empty bottle inside him, and makes it to the toilet, throwing the bottle across the room to the garbage and evacuating his bowels. He feels different. Lighter. Better. Now there is nothing inside him. He can be sure of it.

That night he jerks off for the first time in months, and in the morning he goes back to the drugstore and buys another kit. A two-pack.


End file.
